


A Favour for a Friend

by queuingtrilobite (orphan_account)



Category: The Mummy Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-01-29 11:34:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21409522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/queuingtrilobite
Summary: Roped into doing a favour for a friend, Jonathan finds himself in charge of an antiques shop in Cairo. This is honestly thevery lastfavour he's going to do for anyone. Ever.
Relationships: Ardeth Bay/Jonathan Carnahan
Comments: 27
Kudos: 395
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	A Favour for a Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kaydel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaydel/gifts).

Never do a favour for a friend, that was Jonathan’s motto. One of several mottos, actually, which included ‘never try to best one’s sister’, ‘always leave before things turn nasty’, and of course, ‘the man over there said he’d settle the bill’.

He could come up with plenty of other pithy sayings, but today’s motto was definitely the most appropriate. Today he was dressed in the suit he’d worn for demob. Like him, it had seen better days. Once a decent wool, now it was shiny and threadbare at the cuffs and seat, with cracked leather patches on the elbows and trailing threads at the hem of the trouser legs. Teamed with bare feet in disagreeable sandals, both rubbed with dirt, and a faded, checkered kuffiyeh worn around his neck, the effect was of a thoroughly disreputable scoundrel.

Ahmed el Magid had been delighted with his look. Which was fortunate, as Jonathan had modelled his style on Ahmed’s general appearance.

The owner of an antiquities shop deep in the heart of the Khan el Khalili, Ahmed was a man you could trust as far as you could throw him. Jonathan had purchased several rather nice—and completely genuine—sheets of ancient Egyptian papyri from him; in return, Jonathan had passed Ahmed a few Hamunaptra trinkets to sell on. Apparently, this made them friends, and when Ahmed was summoned back to Gurneh to take personal charge of a new shipment of antiquities—actually, Jonathan was pretty sure the whole lot was fake, but the summons had set the other Cairo dealers buzzing so it’d be good for business either way—Ahmed had asked Jonathan to mind the shop.

So here he was. Playing at being a shopkeeper for the day.

Jonathan perched on the mastaba that served as bench, table, and a place to pray, and surveyed the bustle in the narrow street. It was Monday, market day, and all the shops were open. Tradition dictated that each trade should sell their wares at a location dedicated specifically to that trade, and indeed most did; but in deference to the increase in tourism, many more enterprising souls opened their shops wherever they could.

On this street alone, Jonathan could see a coppersmith hammering out a dent in a bowl, his shop front hung with lanterns of pierced metal; a mosaicist bent over dishes of coloured tesserae; a carpet shop with its mastaba spread with colourful rough kilims, while the more precious silk rugs with their delicate designs were displayed safely inside; and at the corner, just past the coffee house, a shoemaker’s, its proprietor engaged in stitching the red-dyed leather so beloved of Egyptians. 

People of numerous nationalities moved at different paces along the cobbled lane, some browsing, some walking briskly, and some sightseeing, glancing up from their Murray’s or Baedecker’s to point out examples of seventeenth-century architecture.

Despite the awnings hung across the lane, the air was sultry with heat. Myriad smells mingled to create the pervasive fragrance of _eau de Cairo_—a tantalising blend of sweat, heavy perfume, tobacco smoke, the stench of various animal by-products as well as a human effluents, the glistening honey-scent from goods offered by sweetmeat-sellers, and binding it all together, the smoky goodness of roasted coffee beans drifting from the nearby coffee house.

As for antiquities… Well, in this part of the souk, this shop was it. Lily-livered Cook’s tourists would never dare venture this far from their itinerary—no, they would buy their genuine ancient Egyptian souvenirs from the Museum, or from Abd el Sayed Mansoor’s shop inside Shepheard’s—a cushy gig by anyone’s standards—or from the elegantly, expensively laid-out stores on Shari Kamel belonging to Blanchard, Kytikas, or Abemayor.

Only those in search of the real experience ventured into the Khan el Khalili. Only those reckless with their money would come to a shop like this. Ahmed, and for today only, Jonathan, presented no certificate of authenticity for the antiquities for sale, nor declared the purchase to the government. Advice was offered on who to bribe at the port, and directions were given to shops that specialised in wrapping dubiously-provenanced antiquities in the appropriate boxes with the appropriate seals; seals so indistinguishable from the government stamps that one could only marvel at the forger’s skill, or rather, the moral turpitude of the government official who’d appropriated the seal.

Jonathan whistled ‘Ain’t We Got Fun’ as he slid from the mastaba and prowled around the interior of the shop. He’d already sold a scarab dating to the reign of Amenhotep III—genuine—and a basalt stele praising Cleopatra VII—most definitely fake—and the cashbox rattled with a pleasing amount of piastres. His wallet felt much healthier, too, stuffed with pounds. He would give the full amount to Ahmed, of course. Minus a cut for all the work he’d done to close the deals. Say, ten percent. Or perhaps twenty. That only seemed fair.

His gaze fell on a series of objects displayed on a shelf to the left of the shop. Pushing aside a couple of jangling silver sistra—if anyone believed they’d come out of the tomb of Princess Tetiheri, they deserved to be bloody well fleeced—Jonathan reached down the fragile artefacts. Just a little bigger than playing cards, they were the pages of a codex written on thin wooden board coated with gesso. The writing was demotic, red and black ink spidering across each page.

By no means was Jonathan an expert on demotic, but from his scanty grasp of the language this seemed to be an astronomical text. The ancient Egyptians had been keen on that sort of thing. Originally imported from Babylonia, astronomy and astrology reached a peak under the last rulers of Egypt, the Ptolemies. Jonathan would bet his favourite cufflinks, which he wasn’t wearing today, that this text dated to the Ptolemaic period. Which made it less interesting to the casual tourist, but to an academic institution… Oh yes, he could name several universities that would pay top whack for—

“Excuse me. Excuse me, I say!”

The daydream faded. Jonathan straightened his sleeves and placed the pages of the codex back on the shelf before turning and clutching his hands to his breast, mimicking the faux subservience of a market trader.

“You there, yes, the chappie in the scarf thing.” A man with a pair of moustaches stood sweltering in a suit of Harris tweed. He looked like a florid walrus. Making a beckoning gesture, the man pitched his voice louder. “If you please, my good fellow, my wife and I would like to look at the _antikas_.”

Jonathan rolled his eyes and adopted his Amiable Shopkeeper expression. He shuffled forward and, dropping his educated English accent—that would scare these saps off quicker than a rabid dog charging down the lane—put on an accent that crossed several borders, most of them illegally.

“Ah, _Madame, M’sieur_, be _wilkommen_ my shop so humble. _Prego_, look look, _parakalo_, make very good price.” He bowed several times, grinning obsequiously.

“That’s the ticket.” The man beamed fatuously at his wife. “Just have to speak the lingo a bit, eh? Come on, darling, let’s have a browse, see what’s what.”

The woman closed her dainty parasol and, with a moue for the general state of insalubrious disorder in which she found herself, stepped inside the shop. A couple of inches of dust and muck decorated her violet pleated underskirt. She looked as heat-bedraggled as her husband, her hair sliding free of its pins beneath a straw hat.

Jonathan watched them look around the shop. The woman picked up a shabti and put it back with a shudder. The man gravitated towards a set of sketches hanging on the rear wall. He lifted one down and studied it for a moment, then turned to Jonathan, his excitement barely held in check. “Are these by David Roberts, by any chance?”

“Yes, _ja, oui_.” They weren’t by Roberts, but the style was so carefully copied and embellished that they were works of art in their own right.

Scenting a sale in the offing, Jonathan fell back on the ages-old custom of hospitality. He signalled to the coffee house, and soon a lad came running, a coffeepot and cups of battered brass carried on a tray above his head.

Jonathan thanked him, placed the tray on the mastaba, and with a flourish, poured two cups of coffee. “Please drinking.”

“Jolly good of you.” The man picked up a cup and took a cautious sip. Finding it to his liking, he nodded. “Top hole. Matilda, won’t you try a drop? It’s really very good. Authentic Egyptian coffee, not that watered-down stuff they serve at the Metropole.”

Matilda sniffed her response and ventured further into the shop. She bent to take a closer look at a bead necklace. Her tuberose perfume was overpowering.

Allenby chose that moment to wake from his nap. He popped his dark brown head from his basket and screeched his displeasure at the fragrance wafting towards him.

Matilda screamed right back. She reversed across the cramped room and almost tripped over her parasol, catching her elbow a painful crack on the counter opposite. She shrieked again, possibly from shock, or possibly at the sight of the ferret-like creature wriggling out of its basket and tumbling to the floor, where it stood in an aggressive stance, screeching.

“Good God!” the man cried, striding forward to assist his wife. “What is that?”

“A mongoose.” Jonathan picked up the offended animal and held him for a while, patting the sleek, furry coat until the beast quietened. “His name is Allenby.”

The man stared. “As in General Allenby?”

“He’s not mine.” Jonathan deposited Allenby on the display counter that ran at waist-height around all three walls of the shop. “I’m looking after him for a friend.”

He’d forgotten to use his weird accent. Fortunately the couple didn’t notice, apparently too stunned by their encounter with a mongoose named after the former High Commissioner of Egypt. To the English, Allenby was a war hero. To the Egyptians, he’d been as welcome as typhoid.

The mongoose curled around backwards and began to groom his posterior.

“Oh, how disgusting!” Matilda cried, averting her gaze. “What a dirty animal! Come, Reginald, let’s not linger. That thing could have fleas.”

“He does,” Jonathan told her. “But other than that, he’s quite friendly.”

The woman shrieked again. “Reginald! Do something!”

“Er…” Her husband’s face was a study in indecision. He looked longingly at the fake David Roberts sketches, then at his wife. “Tell you what, darling, why don’t you pop along to the coffee shop and check the Baedecker’s for our next destination?”

Matilda drew herself up and gave him a withering look. “There are _men_ in the coffee shop. _Foreign_ men.”

“The carpet shop, then.” Reginald fidgeted from one foot to the other, his smile fixed. “Gosh, isn’t that Mr and Mrs Tinley, the couple staying at Mena House? Only look at that frightful rug they want to buy! You should go and talk them out of it.”

Looking delighted with this important task, Matilda took her leave and sailed across the street, barely pausing when she stepped in some freshly-traipsed camel dung.

“Now then,” Reginald gave Jonathan a toothy smile, “about those sketches…”

After some hard bargaining, Jonathan managed to sell the set of three drawings for double what Ahmed would have charged. Feeling magnanimous, he threw in _gratis_ a ‘very special’ print of a dancing girl in a rather advanced state of dishabille. Reginald’s eyes glazed over when he saw it, then he shook Jonathan’s hand and called him a good egg.

Allenby stopped grooming himself and chittered.

Jonathan nodded to the furry beast. He had no need of a mongoose to alert him to shady-looking characters. His own senses were finely developed to that end. He’d noticed the fellow some time ago, loitering outside the shop and resisting all attempts by other shopkeepers to come and admire their wares.

Pretending ignorance for now, Jonathan wrapped the fake Roberts sketches. He made sure to tape the dancing girl print securely to the back of one of the pictures. As soon as he’d finished his elaborate farewell to Reginald, the other man approached.

Something about the new customer lifted the hair on Jonathan’s nape. The man was well-dressed in a European suit and tie, but his shoes were dirty and his jaw unshaven. From his appearance he could have been a native of any country between Egypt and Circassia, or perhaps even from Greece or Cyprus. His gaze was flat and his features focused, as if he had but one purpose in life and was determined to see it through.

He offered no greeting as he entered the shop. Instead he went straight to the shelf on the left, those curiously dead eyes scanning along it in a targeted search.

On the lower counter, Allenby skittered around, his long tail setting a Badarian-ware vessel wobbling. The mongoose bared its teeth and made an aggrieved sound. Ignoring the animal completely, the customer reached up for the pages of the astronomical text.

Jonathan signalled to the coffee shop. Within moments the same lad had made a fresh delivery and taken away the previous tray. Smiling genially, Jonathan poured the coffee and carried the cup over to the customer.

Ahmed had told him that someone would come today for the demotic codex. The price had been agreed in advance. All Jonathan needed to do was wrap the artefact and take the money.

“Coffee, sir?”

Clutching the astronomical codex to his chest, the man waved away the offer. His gaze skimmed over Jonathan, a spark of animation entering his expression as he registered that standing before him was not Ahmed el Magid, but someone else.

“Where is the usual shopkeeper?” The man spoke in English, but his voice held the inflection of a French accent.

“He is in Gurneh, on business.” Disquieted by the way the customer was looking at him, Jonathan made to return to the safety of the mastaba at the front of the shop.

“Wait.” The man reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand and extracted a roll of notes held together with a rubber band. “The agreed amount.”

Jonathan hesitated. Ahmed would curse him most savagely if he simply received the cash without counting it. He accepted the bundled notes, planning to take them to the mastaba and count them out there, but the man seized his wrist with an iron grip.

“You must take my word for it. The money is all there as promised.”

“Two hundred pounds sterling,” Jonathan said, discreetly tugging his wrist free. “That’s more than four thousand Egyptian pounds, a considerable sum of money by anyone’s reckoning. I’d like to check it.”

A flicker of wry amusement plucked at the man’s mouth. “My name is Avakian,” he said in a tone that suggested that Jonathan should be awed and impressed. “I don’t care to let the whole street witness our transaction.”

“Well, then.” Unable to believe what he was doing, Jonathan tried to hand back the money, eventually stuffing it into Avakian’s jacket pocket. “No count, no codex. Those bills could be counterfeit for all I know. And what I do know is that the text you’re holding in your hand is Ptolemaic, and to the best of my knowledge unique, which means the price just went up.” He held his hand out, palm up, and waggled his fingers. “Three hundred pounds should cover it, I reckon.”

Avakian stared at him in consternation, then laughed. It was as false as the steatite statuette of Hatshepsut displayed near the front of the shop. He laughed until it became awkward, then stopped abruptly and leaned forward in a menacing way. “The pages are… They are fake. Yes, they are worthless!”

Jonathan observed Avakian’s possessive grasp tightening on the pages. “Then why are you buying them?”

“That is my business. Not yours.” A gleam appeared in Avakian’s eyes, as distant and cruel as starlight. He smiled, and it was terrifying. “I warn you, if you will not sell the pages to me, I will take them by force.”

“Is that so?” Jonathan tried to make himself taller.

“Yes.” The menace exuded from Avakian grew more intense.

Thoroughly unnerved, Jonathan began to sidle towards the front of the shop. He managed three steps before Avakian grabbed him.

With a screech, Allenby launched himself from the shelf and sank his teeth into Avakian’s arm.

“_Putain_!” Avakian tried to fling the mongoose aside, but Allenby held on grimly a few seconds more.

The distraction was enough. Lurching sideways, Jonathan grabbed the coffeepot and emptied its steaming hot contents over Avakian’s head.

Avakian yelled and lashed out. The veteran of innumerable bar fights, Jonathan ducked at the appropriate moment and popped up on the other side, fist cocked ready to knock some sense into his opponent. Behind them, Allenby bounced around the shop in a frenzy, knocking antiques from the shelves to smash and clatter onto the floor.

The codex dropped between them and was booted across the room. Jonathan ducked again to seize it, just as Avakian swung at him again. He barrelled into Avakian, sending them both crashing against the counter. They ricocheted off. Jonathan snaked around the man and snatched up the pages with a cry of triumph.

His glee was short-lived. Avakian brought the side of his hand down hard in a vicious chop to the back of Jonathan’s neck. It almost felled him, but O’Connell had taught him to fight dirty if ever he landed in this kind of scrape. Jonathan grabbed at the back of Avakian’s legs and, uttering a battle-cry of “Uwarrghhhh!”, attempted to heave the man’s feet from under him.

It had worked when O’Connell had demonstrated the move on him, but perhaps that was because Jonathan had been a touch inebriated at the time. Whatever the reason, it didn’t work now. He tried again, only for Avakian to grab his kuffiyeh and haul him upright.

“Enough! I will take the codex now.” An unholy light shone in Avakian’s eyes. From a concealed spot within his jacket, he withdrew a curved dagger of Damascene steel. The blade glittered as if hungry.

Jonathan pulled away and stepped backward, his attention wholly on the knife. He didn’t notice the puddle of spilled coffee until, in an act of bitter irony, his feet went from under him and he toppled back onto the mastaba.

The fall drove the breath from his body. He lay there, stunned and a little dizzy, staring up at the awnings stretched high above him. Dimly he was aware of people on the street screaming and shouting, running and shoving to get away. The carpet sellers opposite were flinging curses as they rolled one of their cheapest rugs. Possibly they intended to use it as a battering-ram, to charge at Avakian and knock him down. If that was the plan, Jonathan wished they’d go about it a bit faster.

Avakian advanced, dagger held high. He wore a beatific look, a smile of childlike wonder on his lips. “You will be the first sacrifice. Lord Azag will be pleased. His presence makes fish boil alive in rivers! He brings destruction and death! His children bring suffering to the greatest of cities!”

Jonathan spluttered. “Steady on, old chap. There’s no need for any sacrificing. I’m sure we can work something out.”

“Hear me, Lord Azag! Accept this victim!” Avakian glanced heavenward.

Steel glinted. Sunlight peeked through the gaps in the awnings. The sky was the purest blue.

Jonathan closed his eyes.

The smell of coffee surrounded him. Bloody coffee, making him slip. He’d never drink the stuff again.

He sniffed. Coffee… and something else. The smell of the desert, of leather and horseflesh and some spicy, masculine scent that had a habit of worming itself into one’s brain so that one smelled it at the most inopportune and ridiculous time, such as the moment of one’s death.

Except he wasn’t dead.

Jonathan opened his eyes.

Ardeth stood over him, a half smile on his mouth. “Greetings.”

“Oh, bloody hell. I mean, there you are. About bally time.” Jonathan tried to lever himself up off the mastaba and failed. His legs had turned to the consistency of custard and he had dust in his eye. He blinked rapidly and managed a thin laugh. “Help a fellow up, would you? Thank you. Much appreciated.”

He found himself sitting upright. He was still holding onto Ardeth’s hand. Comfort. It was for comfort. He’d almost been sacrificed in broad daylight on a busy street. Perfectly understandable that he wanted to hold someone’s hand. Especially a tall, handsome Medjai in black robes, with tattoos across his face and shining blue-black curls that made a person want to run their fingers through his hair.

Jonathan felt dizzy. He took a deep breath, and with it came the return of his senses. Now he was aware of the hubbub around him, the scuffle at his feet as a couple of Medjai disarmed Avakian and bound his hands behind his back. In the street, fear turned to anger and dismay that one of their own had been attacked. The carpet-sellers and the shoemaker tried to push past the brawny contingent of Medjai to get at Avakian, while food-sellers offered restorative snacks to those who’d stopped to gawp.

Within a matter of minutes, Avakian had been led away along a side-street and Ahmed’s shop had been made secure. The Medjai melted away into the crowd. The last Jonathan saw of Allenby, the mongoose was riding on the shoulder of one of the desert men, chirruping and giggling as if the whole thing had been a big hoot.

“Now we talk.” Ardeth took a firmer grasp of Jonathan’s hand and pulled him to his feet. Obediently—but only because his legs still felt wobbly—Jonathan followed the Medjai into the coffee house, navigating past the tables and the stove with its steaming pots, through a door into a private room at the back.

He was told to sit. Jonathan sat. The smoky scent of coffee seemed to permeate the very walls. Moments later, Ardeth pressed a glass of brandy into his hands and bade him drink. Another order Jonathan had no problem in following. He drank, and felt better. It was very good brandy. A shame to just knock it back, but perhaps if he did, he’d get more of it, or at least his legs would stop shaking, and his hands.

He set the empty glass down before he could drop it.

“Listen, Ardeth, old chap,” it was a miracle he could even think straight, let alone talk coherently, “I’m sorry to say this, but that was the absolute last time I’m doing you a favour. The last time, do you hear me? ‘Do me a favour,’ you said; ‘it won’t be dangerous,’ you said. ‘It’ll be easy to get Ahmed to hand over the shop, it’ll be a piece of cake to lure in the suspect. We’ll be right there nearby to help you,’ you said, ‘absolutely nothing can go wrong.’ Well, where the bloody hell do I start?”

He paused, not actually knowing where to start. In that brief moment of silence, Ardeth said quietly, “I understand.”

“Do you?” Jonathan looked up into Ardeth’s dark eyes, swept his gaze over the Medjai tattoos and took in every detail of that serious face. He looked, and after a while Ardeth’s lips quirked. 

Jonathan glanced away, his heart doing a strange pitter-pat. Blast his nerves; he really needed another brandy. “Who was my would-be sacrificer, anyway?”

“Professor Avakian,” Ardeth said. “An expert on Babylonian demonology.”

“Demons. Excellent. Wonderful.” Jonathan was so glad he’d asked. “And this Lord Azag is…?”

“A demon. A particularly unpleasant one. Surely you heard the part about his presence causing fish to boil alive in the rivers?”

Jonathan hugged himself. “It made him sound like rather a culinary kind of demon.”

As quips went it was quite poor, but Ardeth laughed anyway, a rich, deep sound that warmed Jonathan down to his toes.

“Azag’s children are demons made from rock. They are said to crush their enemies to death and to level cities.” Flicking out his blue-black robes, Ardeth sat beside him, uninvited but not unwelcome. “He and his offspring were defeated millennia ago, but Professor Avakian believed that, with a combination of the spells contained in the pages of the codex and a number of blood sacrifices, he could raise Azag again.”

“Because that’s always a good idea.” Jonathan curved a hand over his eyes, as if doing so would block the memory of the knife arcing towards him. “What will you do with Avakian? Hand him over to the authorities?”

“No.” Ardeth’s voice was quiet again, thoughtful. “He had his reasons for acting as he did. I will say only this: I understand the desire that led to his decision, but I cannot agree with the way he chose to enact it.” He exhaled, and some of the tension left his shoulders. “We will work with the professor to guide him onto safer paths. Ones that exclude the summoning of ancient demons.”

“Excellent idea. Glad to hear it.” Jonathan waited a beat before glancing up again. “And, er, what happened to the codex?”

Ardeth studied him, expression unreadable. “Unfortunately, the pages were destroyed. The hot coffee washed away much of the text and damaged part of the gesso. Probably the wood will be warped, too, when the artefact is dried.”

“Oh dear.”

“Indeed.”

“Such a shame.”

“It is.”

Jonathan thought he’d better shut up now before Ardeth grew suspicious. Surreptitiously he felt the edge of the wooden boards in his inside jacket pocket, where he’d tucked them earlier. Sleight of hand was a skill at which he particularly excelled, and though he wasn’t quite as competent in the art of forgery, he prided himself on doing a good enough job with the demotic. It had fooled Professor Avakian, after all.

He cleared his throat. “And what of Ahmed el Magid?”

Ardeth got to his feet, robes flowing about him. “The authorities took Magid into custody as soon as he took possession of the antiquities in Gurneh. There were a surprising number of genuine artefacts amongst the fakes.”

“All’s well that ends well, eh?” Deciding to trust that his legs would bear his weight, Jonathan slapped his hands on his thighs and levered himself upright, avoiding eye-contact with Ardeth. “Well, old bean, this has been enormous fun, but I meant what I said. No more favours. Absolutely none. You attract trouble like—”

Ardeth made a sound suspiciously like a snort. “_I_ attract trouble?”

“Like flies to vinegar,” Jonathan declared. “I mean honey. I’m not calling you honey, by the way. Just to be clear. I—”

“Carnahan.” Ardeth’s voice was a rumbling purr. “Do me a favour.”

Heart in his mouth, Jonathan asked, “What?”

“Look at me for a moment.”

Jonathan looked up.

Ardeth bent and kissed him. A very nice kiss, too, heat and pressure and the taste of coffee, and he was smiling, Ardeth was smiling as he kissed him, and—

It came to an end all too soon. Jonathan drew in a shaking breath and expelled it in a rush. “Well.” Damn it, his legs were wobbly again.

“Thank you, Jonathan.” Ardeth stepped backwards. His smile became a grin, and he sketched a bow. “Until the next time.”

“Next time…?” Jonathan started after him. “There won’t be a next time, you great lunk! Do you hear me, no more favours!”

The door swung shut. Ardeth had gone.

“Ah, well.” Jonathan touched his lips, tracing the lingering warmth of the kiss, then patted the comforting shape of the astronomical text in his pocket. “Not an entirely wasted day.”

Whistling the chorus of ‘Ain’t We Got Fun’, he left the shop by the rear door and plunged back into the familiar, beloved chaos of Khan el Khalili.


End file.
